


Do You Want My Lunch-Money, Too, Or...?

by incogneat_oh



Series: It's definitely a trap. [2]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Injury, Jason Todd: a good-natured bully, brief appearances by Dick Grayson and Damian Wayne, weird families bonding weirdly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 19:26:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8727304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incogneat_oh/pseuds/incogneat_oh
Summary: “This is exactly why no one patrols with you, Hood.”
“Just for that, baby b,” Jason says, following him out of the alleyway. “I think I’m gonna ‘accidentally’–” finger quotes and all “–run into you every patrol now.” A beat. “You like motown? I got a boom box.”





	

Jason is skulking, hands-in-pockets, wandering the halls of the Manor. He’s feeling edgy in that way he can’t explain, that way that pre-dated the Pit. Even when he was a kid, he’d get days like these. Drive his mom  _crazy._

It’s a day where he can’t focus long enough to read a book, can’t sit still long enough to get into questionable TV. He’d wanted to spar, but Dick was in too much pain from his bad knee (read as: sulking from a big fight with Babs), Damian is a super-brat who should be avoided at all costs, and Bruce was, in his own words, “Doing grown-up work, sorry Jay”.

It had only taken eight minutes for Alfred to evict Jason from his kitchen. He’d been firm but polite, and said in no uncertain terms that he didn’t expect to see Jason until dinner time, and not a minute sooner.

So Jason is at a loss. Waiting for inspiration to strike. If he can just find  _something_ to do, that’ll make him feel different. Just for a minute, just a  _distraction_ … 

There’s a part of him that wants to go for a run, but it’s a very small part. He doesn’t feel like it’ll help; too much time for introspection, and it’s the wrong kind of tiring. He just. He doesn’t know what he  _needs_ , and that’s all kinds of frustrating. 

So he’s pacing the second floor of the Manor. Waiting for someone  _else_ to tell him off. 

He doesn’t even know why he comes to the goddamn Manor on days like this. Maybe if he punches Dick he’ll at least get a reaction. Not a fun one, but still.

And he’s… regrettably considering it. It’s his most promising option so far. He’s honestly weighing it up, how much he’d have to pull his punch to still get Alfred-food for dinner (the answer is a  _lot_ ; hardly worth it _)_ , when he wanders into a sitting room.

It’s a small, cramped space, decorated lavishly of course, but rarely used. Which is why Jason’s surprised to see Tim Drake, Replacement Extraordinaire, lying on his stomach in the middle of the room, taking notes on a legal pad. 

His tongue is poking out one side of his mouth, a concentrated frown pulling between his eyebrows, and he startles to see Jason there in the doorway. Then he does that awkward little half-smile he does sometimes, when he’s not sure how it’ll be received.

“Hi, Jason,” he says. Still pressed into the soft-looking carpet, and  _wow_ , no wonder Tim lies down in here. How come  _he_  didn’t know about this–? “How long’ve you been there–? I didn’t, um. This W.E stuff is pretty, ha,  _involved_.”

And Jason is struck with inspiration. It’s perfect.

He wanders over, starts to crouch down, like he’s going to look at the stock-sheets or whatever other bullshit the kid’s working on. And Tim, bless his heart, actually  _moves over_ , to make room for him. When he really should know better.

In a smooth movement, Jason’s hoisted Tim off the carpet and onto his shoulder, standing straight– “Hey– shit–  _Jason–_ ”

And the kid’s dropped his pen by mistake, wriggling uncomfortably in Jason’s grip. Jason starts to walk.

“I can hurt you,” Tim threatens, but the words are empty. Not because he  _can’t_ hurt Jason (the babybird kicks ass), but mostly because he  _won’t_. Especially when he sounds kind of nervous like this, unsure. Like maybe Jason has a good reasonfor spiriting him away from his important work. 

Ha.

And Jason walks a few doors down the hall, ignoring protests, ’til he finds one he likes. He opens the door to the dark– ahh, guest-room, he should’ve guessed– walks in a few steps to the bed, and drops Tim, none too gently, onto the bed.

He grunts when he hits the covers, winded (Jason’s shoulder in his gut), and Jason is already out the door, quickly slamming it behind him.

He shouldn’t laugh, when he feels the handle rattle beneath his grip. But he does.

“Jason,” the babybird does not sound unsure any more. He sounds pissed. “Let me out, would you?”

“Nah,” Jason says. Feels the door tremble with the force of Tim’s attempts to open it.

“Come  _on_ , Alfred’s gonna kill us if we break another antique door!”

“So don’t break it,” Jason calls back, gleeful.

“Fine,” he snaps, voice muffled from behind the door. “I’ll just break out through the window, leave you standing there like a– like an overgrown  _idiot_.”

“You aren’t wearing shoes,” Jason reminds him cheerfully. “And it’s freezing outside, but good luck.”

There is silence from the other side of the door. Jason waits. Presses his ear to the wood.

“ _Ugh_ ,” Tim groans. “Can’t you just let me out–? I have shit to do, and I don’t even know why you stuck me in here…”

The handle starts to rattle and jerk again, futilely. C’mon, Tim. Give him some credit.

And Jason’s grinning. This, as it turns out, is a pretty good distraction. With minimal violence, too! At least until Tim gets out.

He figures he’ll maybe give up in another ten minutes. Hold out just long enough for Tim to lose hope–

“ _Jason_!”

–but hey. It may happen even sooner than that. 

 

— —

 

Red Robin is midway through a, hmm, an interrogation. The fun kind, the kind that is  _so much better_ now that he’s gained a couple inches and is in a much more frightening suit.

“C’mon, man, this isn’t fair–”

Which isn’t to say he doesn’t still get attitude. Because he does. This is Gotham; a cape and some athletic moves aren’t impressing anyone. 

“What’s  _unfair_ ,” Red Robin growls. “Is that three weeks after you’re hired by Emselle Security, fourteen of their properties are broken into. By the  _Crushers_. Now  _you_ strike me as exactly the kind of cowardly piece of trash that’d join forces with a gang. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Hey, that’s. That’s, I mean, it’s out of order. Kinda rude assessment, yeah?” The guy’s jammed against the wall, pinned not especially gently by his throat. And he’s still pouting and giving lip.

Red Robin snarls. Behind the cowl, though, Tim’s rolling his eyes, but he raises his fist–

“Nah, he’s right, Lil Red,” comes the Red-Goddamn-Hood’s voice, from above. “That was a pretty nasty thing t’say, y’know? ‘specially to a guy you just met.”

“Hood,” Red Robin says, curt, barely glancing around. He hears the thud of Jason’s heavy boots landing in the alleyway. “Not really your business.”

“Well, no,” he says. It sounds like he’s grinning, even though the helmet filters.

This is not going to go well.

“But I’m free to offer my opinion, right? That you’re unnecessarily judgemental, I mean.” Then, sympathetically, to the  _perp_ , “Product of private schooling, I think.”

“Ah,” the guy nods, understandingly. Chin bumping into Red Robin’s gauntlet. 

“No ‘ _ah_ ’,” Red Robin snaps, spinning as far as he can without releasing the perp. “That’s not– that’s not a thing, Hood.”

“C’mon, babybird,” Jason says, advancing. Hands out and friendly. “It’s not a criticism, just a comment. Every movie we watch you’re all bitching about who’s out of character and poorly written and how ‘scientifically improbable’ it is. Plus, you do that  _face_ when you meet new people. Or, now that I think about it, even people you’ve known forever.”

“I’m not– that’s just my  _face_ ,” he says. “Shut up, it isn’t– why am I even  _talking_ to you about this? Go away!”

“Ahh, I figured I’d stick around. Make sure you don’t do my new buddy here any injustice,” and here, the Red Hood gives his ‘buddy’, the thieving gangster still squirming in Tim’s grip, a couple friendly finger guns. 

“ _What_.”

“Just because you’re so biased,” he clarifies. 

The perp snickers.

Tim punches him in the solar plexus, releasing him. Doesn’t bother to watch his slow slide down to the ground, ignores the low groan. He sends in an automated call to the GCPD, dusts off his gauntlets. Turns around. 

“This is  _exactly_ why no one patrols with you, Hood.”

“Just for  _that_ , baby b,” Jason says, following him out of the alleyway. “I think I’m gonna ‘accidentally’–” finger quotes and all “–run into you every patrol now.” A beat. “You like motown? I got a boom box.”

 

— —

 

He’d heard about it the day after it happened. Dick had called to let him know that the kid was going to be okay, but that he was beat up pretty seriously.

Apparently yesterday he’d been okay enough to walk around, a little, in a limping sort of way. But he was allowed to sleep upstairs instead of the Cave’s med bay with constant monitoring and Alfred’s unwavering optimism. The forced, borderline sarcastic kind, with pointed comments about his heart and grandchildren taking things for granted.

Jason’s very familiar with that particular set of complaints.

And so he figured today was as good a day as any, to stop by the Manor and catch up with the family. See how the babybird was faring with his confinement.

“So,” he booms cheerfully, from the doorway. He feels a little bad when the kid jerks in surprise and then cringes. “Heard you got your ass handed to you.”

“And what?” Tim croaks. Eyeing him warily from where he is carefully positioned on the couch. He’s got a black eye and his nose is swollen. His lip is scabbed, there’s a cast on his left arm, and the stiff way he’s holding himself says broken ribs.

“And nothing,” Jason says. Shrugging. He comes into the room uninvited, sits on the couch beside Tim. He takes it slowly, though, settling his weight so he doesn’t jolt the kid. “I was gonna make fun of you, but that’s kind of an asshole move. Even from me.”

“Go figure,” Tim says. And then, “… my everything hurts.”

“Toe-to-toe with Bane’ll do that to you,” Jay agrees. Touching his fingers gently to Tim’s open palm. He presses down, very slightly. “Even here?”

“Yep.” But Tim’s smiling when he says it, eyes closed.

“Wuss,” Jason says. And then, “I’m gonna sign your cast, okay?”

“Dick beat you to it,” he mumbles. “Sharpie’s over there,” he inclines his head. Opens his eyes a little. “Nothing rude. I mean it.”

Jason rolls his eyes, standing to get the marker from the side-table. “Gimme a little credit, Timothy.” And, getting closer, he scoffs. “Like it could be any worse than Dick’s.” Because there, in the centre of Tim’s casted forearm, is a giant heart with  **FEEL BETTER!! LOVE FROM DICK** in the centre. 

“He is both wildly embarrassing and entirely sincere,” Tim murmurs. “I can always get white shoe polish. Or wrap it in fresh bandages.”

Jason nods, settling carefully on Tim’s other side. He takes the cast into his lap, fiddling with the cap from the pen. Indecisive.

“Just your name is fine,” Tim says, after a minute. His eyes are closed again.

“How about my name next to a penis,” Jason says. “Or, wait, can I graffiti Dick’s? I’ll improve it, I promise.”

“ _Just your name_ ,” Tim says again, and Jason laughs.

He takes his time with it though, keeping it neat. Shit like that’s pretty important to the babybird. But he can only write his first name, what with being legally dead, so it doesn’t take very long. 

And when he’s done he shifts Tim’s arm, to admire his handiwork. 

When he glances at Tim’s face, he sees that the kid is flopped against the back of the couch, his eyes still closed. Mouth open, his breathing is a steady rasp.

“Those painkillers are really knocking you around, huh Replacement?”

“Mm,” he slurs. Not opening his eyes. “Alfred… says they’re. Compulsory. For a bit.”

“That sounds pretty fair, Tim,” Jason says, leaning in. “You look like roadkill.”

“Mm.”

And Jason. He eyes the marker, still in his hand. Tim sleeping beside him.

He can’t pass up this opportunity. He can’t do it. He is not that strong a person.

He does feel a  _little_  bad, when Tim stirs. Right when Jason’s brushing hair off his forehead. “Relax, baby b, go back to sleep,” Jason says, and he  _does_. 

And Jason, leaning very gingerly over the top of him, uncaps the sharpie. He freezes, when he first touches the tip to Tim’s face. But the kid doesn’t move.

And then. Well, it’s difficult, to keep from laughing long enough to do it. But when he’s done, it’s perfect. Written right there in the middle of Tim’s forehead, the words  **J.T WAS HERE**.

On reflection, he thinks, sitting back. Maybe he shouldn’t have used a  _permanent_  marker.

 

— —

Tim’s mid-workout, palms pressed into the Cave floor. An off-the-cuff comment from Bruce means that, naturally, he’s working himself twice as hard as usual, and focussing more on muscle and strength training than his usual, more varied workout.

He doesn’t remember the last time he ate so much protein in a week.

So he’s doing push-ups against the cold stone, his arms getting unpleasantly shaky, sweat running into his eyes. When he hears a sound behind him.

No greeting, though, which means it’s definitely not Dick. Probably not Bruce, because he only left an hour ago for WE. Most likely Damian.

Except, he hears the someone getting closer. And Damian usually makes it a point to skirt as widely around him as the Cave allows, so it must be–

Jason Todd. Who says, “Don’t mind me,” and then  _sits on Tim’s back_.

He hits the floor with an “ _oof_ ”, cheek aching on the hard ground, torso  _crushed_ , and Jason just. Sits there.

Says, “Why have you stopped?” and, “I didn’t pick you for a quitter.” And then, after a pause in which the only sound is Tim, struggling to breathe, Jason says, sounding doubtful, “Do you even lift?”

“Get  _off_ ,” Tim gasps, “I can’t  _breathe_ when your… giant butt is  _crushing_ me.”

The pain increases, slightly, when Jason leans forward and a little sideways. Like he could see Tim’s face from there anyway. “… Did you just call me fat?”

_If the home-made belt notch fits_ , Tim doesn’t say. Because he’s conserving oxygen. For keeping alive purposes. 

But Jason hits him anyway, over the back of the head. Open-palm, kind of a smack. And he says indignantly, “You  _were_ callin’ me fat. Well, just for that I’m not gonna move.”

“Can see… the light,” Tim says. He can’t move. Ugh.

“You’re fine, princess,” Jason says, and Tim can literally  _hear_ his eye-roll. And then he says, “I can’t believe you’d insult me like that. Right when I was helpin’ you with your workout. Don’t you know I’m sensitive?”

“Jace–”

“Naah, it’s too late for apologies.” Jason sounds mournful. “I’m just gonna have to sit here ’til you can muster up the balls to do at  _least_ one push up with me here.” And then, “I’m  _barely_ 200lbs.”

“You’re 215,” Tim rasps. He’s actually seeing black spots at this point.  _Wow_.

“Semantics,” Jason says, and–

“Hey Tim, you’re down here, right?” Dick’s voice, like a warm ray of sunshine, from the top of the stairs. 

“Shit,” Jason hisses, and Tim’s never seen him move so fast. Not even in the face of machine gun fire. He’s on his feet in a second, says, “You haven’t seen me, okay?” and then he’s gone.

Tim sucks in a couple deep breaths. Rolls on his back slowly. There’s no trace of Jason, now, except maybe in Tim’s permanently reduced capacity for oxygen. His arms-and-face-and-chest hurt. His back hurts. 

Then, a shadow falling over him; Dick, saying, “Wow, Tim, is  _this_ your idea of a workout? Cuz you know, like. It’s not gonna do a lot, right?”

 

——

Jason’s in a swivel chair, going side-to-side. The Cave is cold and quiet and boring.

Alfred’s in bed. Batman and Robin are out patrolling. Nightwing, too, but goodness knows what constitutes patrolling for that guy. He’s probably flirting or eating frozen yoghurt. His two default settings. 

He and Tim have been benched, regrettably. 

“Why do we even come to the goddamn Manor, if we’re just gonna be stuck with this injustice?” Jason asks, without heat. Still turning left and right and left again, feet set on the stone floor.

“Alfred,” Tim says simply. 

“Yeah,” Jason sighs. Gets briefly lost in his fond memories of dinner. 

Credit to the babybird, he takes even the most banal tasks from Bruce seriously. They’re on monitor duty,  _both of them_ , which is Bruce’s loud and non-verbal statement about exactly how much he trusts both of them, lately. At least that’s what Jason thinks.

Tim, he’s not sure. Maybe Tim thinks it’s B trying to be sweet and give them an easy night in. But then, he is supposed to be the smart one.

And Jason’s been carefully trying to lead Tim into badmouthing the big guy all night, but whether it’s loyalty or cluelessness, the kid is incorruptible. 

Tim is still silent, stooped forward at the console. Eyes dark and focussed on the screen ahead of him. He has a headset loose in one hand. A line to Batman’s cowl, if they need it. 

Jason isn’t even at a damn computer. But if he does throw in the towel and go home, he  _knows_ that someone is gonna make a snide comment about how he couldn’t outlast a ten year old on patrol.

Ugh.

The Replacement’s lips are moving while he’s looking at the security feed on the large monitor. “Something there…” he murmurs, to himself. 

“Which feed?” Jason says.

“Huh?” Tim looks around, confused. Like he forgot Jason was there or something.

“ _Which feed_?”

“Oh, um, the fourth one. Hang on,” he pulls the headset on, keys in a couple commands with the other hand. The footage blows up to take the whole screen. And Tim’s lips are still moving while he watches it. 

Something moving a little, in a dark alleyway. Tim mumbles something about sound, and types a couple more commands.

Tim’s not watching Jason.

He stands from his wheelie chair, moving closer to the screen. Like he’s examining it carefully, how Tim is. But he actually has something very different in mind.

He inches his hand toward the control panel. 

Tim’s still fully focussed on the screen. 

Jason fingers the volume dial, lightly. It’s a very sensitive piece of equipment, which is why it only needs to be on ‘1’. Jason traces the numbers with a fingertip; eyes Tim. 

Then, in a decisive motion, he cranks the volume up to ’10’–

“ _Ow_!” – and takes a few quick steps out of Tim’s reach.

In one violent gesture, Tim’s yanked the headset off his ears and unplugged it from the console. Breathing hard. 

“… RR,” Batman’s voice, from the computer. Gruff but immediate, which is practically concern. “Status report.”

“I am going to kill Hood,” Tim snarls, instead of answering. Pressing on his ears gingerly.

“Get in line!” Robin, high voice tinny, shortly followed by a rumbled, “Shh, Robin.”

“What’d he do to you, R?” Tim says. Sounding curious.

“Huh?” says Damian. “Oh, he didn’t  _do_ anything. I just find him irritating. He is on my list.”

“Well  _that’s_ ominous,” Jason murmurs, when Batman cuts the connection.

Weirdly, Tim just  _glares_ at him. Sometimes Jason doesn’t think anyone really gets his sense of humour.

 

——

 

Tim’s sitting on his couch. It’s barely after 8, but the apartment’s dark. 

He’d been home for less than an hour, but he had ditched his suit and tie the moment he got inside. Since then, he’s been on the couch. Moving is too effortful, except to flick between different shows on his DVR.

It’s been a bad week.

So bad, in fact, that Tim doesn’t intend to patrol tonight. He’s going to lie here and watch mindless, stupid TV until he is tired enough to go upstairs and pass out. He’s going to pity himself, a little, because it’s one of those days. And he’s going to sleep late tomorrow and eat whatever he wants for a late breakfast. Carbohydrates, even.

He closes his eyes. Sinks further into the cushions. If Bruce just–

His phone chimes, from where it’s facedown on the floor. He seriously considers ignoring it, but. Of course he doesn’t. 

It’s an SMS from… Jason, oddly enough, that reads;

**Did u eat today?**

Tim’s brow furrows. Probably sent it to him by accident. So he fires of a quick,  **?** and hits send. Dropping his phone back to the floor. He’s honestly not expecting a response, which is why, when his phone goes off a minute later, he startles. 

Jason again;

**thats a no, i’m bringing burgers from that place u like**

and then,

**ETA 10 mins make urself pretty**

Tim sighs. Drops the phone back down. He hopes whoever Jason  _meant_ to be texting isn’t too surprised, when the guy shows up uninvited with food. But Tim can’t imagine whoever it is’ll be too upset. Jason has great taste in burgers. 

They’d actually hung out, once, him and Jason. It had been about lunch time (or, well, Bat-lunch time, which was actually around 3pm) and Jason had suggested a little diner he knew. He asked if Tim had ever been there, and got a knowing little grin when Tim said no.

And he was right. The burger was  _fantastic_ ; Jason said the place had been there forever, and Tim had said something embarrassing, mouth full, along the lines of; “well good, because I don’t ever want to eat any burger that is not this one, oh my  _God_ ” and Jason had laughed and rolled his eyes and kicked him in the shin under the table. 

That had been a pretty good day. 

Tim closes his eyes again, half-listening to. Well, whatever trash is on. Honestly, his life’d be so much easier if Dick didn’t keep hijacking his stuff. He would never DVR a reality show like this.

And he’s got his eyes closed still, minutes later; though he jumps  _a mile_ when his front doorknob rattles. Then there’s a rustling sound, what might be a muffled curse, and then a very firm, very loud knock.

Tim freezes. After a moment, he mutes the TV. 

There’s another knock. Louder than the first. He gets off the sofa, flicking on a floor lamp on his way past. He opens the door, cautious, unsure who’d show up at his place at this time of night.

Jason Todd is standing there, large paper bags bundled in one hand, looking unimpressed. He says, “I didn’t  _actually_ expect you to make yourself pretty, babybird, but I figured you’d at least unlock the door.  _Sheesh_.”

Tim’s mouth is open. He doesn’t even stand aside to let Jason in, says, “Those texts… were actually for me?”

“No duh,” Jason says, rolling his eyes. Nudging Tim aside and heading into the kitchen with the bags. “I know I was–  _out of the loop_ for a couple years, but you think I don’t know how to use a phone?”

And Tim doesn’t say anything to that, just watches Jason clatter around in Tim’s kitchen like it belongs to him, getting out a couple plates and some cutlery. 

Dumbly, after a minute, Tim goes to help. Unwrapping the hot food from its greaseproof paper and laying it out on Tim’s never-been-used crockery. And Tim says, while Jason dishes out the fries, “These are… from that diner, right? The one we went to that time?”

“Of course,” Jason tells him, mouth full of fries, going to dig in the fridge. He comes up with a couple diet Zestis, and makes a face. But he still tosses one to Tim and pops one for himself. “You think I’d bring you an inferior burger?”

“… Did I say thanks yet?” Tim says, when Jason passes him a knife and fork. Still feeling punch-drunk and unsure.

“Nah,” Jason says, picking up his plate of food. “But we’re good.” And then, halfway out of the kitchen, “Table, or couch?”

“Couch,” Tim says, taking his own plate. “Definitely couch.”

“Nice,” Jason says. Sitting sprawled over one end, immediately at ease. At home. And then, looking up at the TV, “Aww hell no, you watch this shit?”

“No, well, not really,” Tim says, taking the other end of the couch. “I think Dick recorded it on my DVR.”

Jason rolls his eyes, mouth full of burger, and leans over to liberate the remote. He flicks around for a minute, eventually finds a black and white gangster movie. He looks over, raises his eyebrows at Tim. Who becomes suddenly aware of the ketchup on his face. “This okay?”

“Perfect,” Tim says. And, “This burger is a miracle in a bun, Jason.”

He snorts a laugh through his mouthful, “Right?” and then there’s a comfortable silence. 

They’d both given up on cutlery two mouthfuls in, and are eating caveman-style. (At the Manor, Tim is sure, Alfred is sighing and he doesn’t know why.)

And Tim’s sneaking these unsure glances at Jason. Because this is unquestionably a much,  _much_ better way to spend his evening, and he definitely isn’t complaining. But at the same time, he doesn’t know what Jason’s doing here.

He  _was_ at the Cave yesterday night, when. Well. And if it were anyone else, Tim would be skeptical. But this is Jason Todd, and Jason Todd doesn’t do pity. Especially not about Bruce, or his newest  _acquisition_. He especially wouldn’t pity Tim.

But he can worry about it tomorrow. For now, there’s delicious food, weirdly pleasant company, and a surprisingly good movie on.

And then, apropos of nothing, Jason starts to laugh. Tim looks at him questioningly but Jason shakes his head, still laughing. It takes him a moment to speak.

“You serious, nerd?” Jason gestures to him, grin still wide on his face. “You’re a baby billionaire, and  _this_ is how you get all your nice threads?”

“… I,” Tim says, confused. And then he looks down at his faded, holey pyjama pants. And. A too-big Gotham Knights t-shirt, a few seasons behind. And then, tugging at the shirt, growing slowly mortified– “Is this  _yours_? I assumed it was Dick’s!”

“Do you just steal all the clothes you own?” Jason says. "Hey, is  _that_ why you're rich?!"

**END.**

**Author's Note:**

> Also on [tumblr.](http://incogneat-oh.tumblr.com/post/91956687784/do-you-want-my-lunch-money-too-or)


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